


Smallfolk

by TheOneKrafter



Series: Smallfolk and Such [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, F/F, F/M, Fleabottom, Gen, Humor, King's Landing, Reincarnation, Self-Insert, Snark, The North (ASOIAF), Winterfell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 14:17:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16662499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOneKrafter/pseuds/TheOneKrafter
Summary: SI is reborn as one of Robert Baratheon’s bastards, and due to meddling by her new mother she's thrown into the chaos that is the plot. Whoever thought this shit was funny is going to get a foot to the balls.





	1. The Plot Catching Up

**Author's Note:**

> So here's smallfolk, or at least my attempt to improve smallfolk. I apologize for a significant lack of formatting, I only have my phone to post this right now and I'll fix it as soon as I have access to my computer. 
> 
> So there. Enjoy.

  
The news arrives from word of mouth first.  
  
Servants spoke with loose lips, so did those who overheard them, and somewhere along the line, by morning even Flea Bottom knew the king's hand was dead.  
  
Jon Arryn, Lord of the Vale, hand of King Robert Baratheon, was dead. His lady wife and lordling son leaving before the body cold, making sense considering she was the one who fed him the poison. Rumor in the whore houses was that the official release of the death wasn't until noon. Unfortunate, as it was mid morning, and the rumor mill had already moved faster than their grace the king.  
  
My father in this life wasn't the brightest, I'd been lucky to only inherit the pretty black hair and urge to snog someone every so often.  
  
Ten copper pennies and three half pennies drop into my hand, and my far older mind quickly equates that to roughly eleven U.S. dollars and fifty cents.  
  
"I'm missing another star's worth ma'am." I state quietly, giving the woman a almost bored look.  
Eight more dollars. My mind responds almost immediately, and I take a moment to appreciate my boring talent for math.  
  
She grunts, and I can see the way she grips her money pouch with a much tighter grip. She's the mistress of one of the more middle class brothels, in the upper end of the northern slums.  
  
Translation, she thinks she's hot shit with a high income, and isn't fond of the saying 'Sharing is Caring'.  
  
Bitch.  
  
"A groat and nothing more, girl. Now shoo, you're scaring patrons away." She says with a sneer, dropping the coin into my hand.  
  
Half what you should be giving me, oh gee, thanks.  
  
I make myself scarce, and don't bother with any snark. No doubt the king will be having another bloody tourney or feast in the dead Hand's name, though he'll be more drunk and sad, and I didn't need that woman making my life harder than it already is. Tourneys need large amounts of staff to serve the amount of wine and food noble's ingested, and I need that money to convince my dear mother whoring was in fact not the best profession, and we should at least move away from the shit drain that is Flea Bottom.  
  
Back to the woman, one whisper into the ear of a upper end servant who I know comes in here every week and that chance would be squashed for plan B.  
  
Plan B is to cut my hair and reap the benefits of being male in this world. I would have done it already, but dearest mother likes my hair. In both lives.  
  
I still keep the curls to my shoulders though. Flea Bottom had a thing for 'If you can't hide it well you deserve for it to get stolen', and that counts for young daughters with pretty faces.  
  
Regardless, in this world word of mouth is taken much more seriously than the last. Not everyone is literate after all.  
  
Happy thoughts. Think happy thoughts.  
  
I was a well functioning adult, with a good education and living far from my parents. It sucked then, sure, but now my sole reason for going on is the thought that at least it was me and not them.  
  
Selfishly, I wish I'd been born into some non-violent show, like a harem anime, only I got to watch the fucked up chaos from the side. Ouran Highschool Host Club would’ve been a hella’ entertaining reality, this shit is just depressing.  
  
Maybe before the ice Zombies break through the wall I'll get to haul my Mother to Dorne.  
  
First I need money.  
  
Sigh.  
  
I tuck the money into the pocket I'd sewn into the inside of my tunic, noting the small jingle the coins made as I walked. It was a strike of genius on my part to put the pocket inside my shirt rather then my pants.  
  
Everyone assumes the pants.  
  
It's a slow walk from Flower’s Mead back to my place. I handle one more brothel’s taxes before I'm back on my street, tired looking women leaning against doorways and tiny heads poking in and out of the crowd. The flower district, for lack of a better term, has more than just one street like this.  
  
I wave to a couple people, but turn to enter Madam Yyra’s all the same.  
  
Opening the door I'm hit with the smell of sex, no matter how hard they try and cover it with cheap incense. Or maybe they aren't and they just think the incense is classy, I've never asked.  
  
I step around the now awaking hungover men still here from the night before, heading up the stairs to make sure my mother remembered to brush her teeth and wash the oils from her hair. The women called me her mother and her my daughter and laughed at times, but it really was true in a sense.  
My mother liked to call me mature and serious, said I must have gotten it from the king’s elder brother. I’d added sourly daughter burner in my mind. It'd stuck with me, that episode. The way he watched.  
  
He spoke of honor, when no man of honor would do such a thing to the daughter he'd tried so hard to save when a infant. The fucking red lady's only redeeming quality was that she brought Jon back to life-  
  
I suppose Jon would be going to the wall soon, actually.  
  
I shove down my urge to meddle again, because fuck this isn't some FanFiction- (Well, it might be. Definitely something I would've wrote in the Before.)- and I'm no hero. The Queen would kill me if I ever came close to her husband, I'm legitimate after all, more then her children anyway. Not that I don't like Tommen and Myrcella, those two were angels. It was just Joffrey, the little shit. The little sadistic shit.  
  
My existence can't butterfly that little fucker away, unfortunately.  
  
I open my mother's door to be greeted by...  
  
Was that the Imp?  
  
I step inside only half annoyed and a little awed by the sight of him and my mother's boobs becoming intimate. Had it been my mother in my first life, I'd have been pissed. Now it's more of a 'ugh, nasty' than anything.  
I shut the door, noticing that they don't notice me. I pull my coins out of my pocket, and crouch down under the dresser, pulling out one of my money stashes and dropping the coins in the wood box.  
  
It's that noise that announces my presence.  
  
"Ah, bring me some more wine please?" I hear Tyrion ask, and I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. I turn my head and look the man, almost falling into the habit of lifting my eyebrow.  
  
"Apologies my lord, but I am not employed here. I live here.” I stand from my position and slid the coin stash back under the dresser with my foot.  
  
"That's my mother you're enjoying the company of, by the way." I state blandly, keeping eye contact. Any other lord would be offended, but...  
  
Tyrion, who looks like a young version of the actor but with the right hair and eye colors, seems to look sick for a moment, and I almost laugh.  
  
"At least this explains the Lions in the main room." I state, standing and walking to the door. "I will let someone know you'd like some wine though, my lord." I add, giving a little bow before walking out and shutting the door behind me. I take two steps, and lean my head against the opposite wall.  
  
A headache is pounding in my ears and all I can think is Fuck, canon is catching up to me, and I have a horrible feeling it wants to play.  
  
It's toys don't usually live very long.  


* * *

  
My mother runs the brush through my hair again and again, gesture that should be soothing.  
  
Should is a keyword.  
  
“You know, only you would speak like that to a Lord.” She states, her voice silky. She old enough to be a older sister, considering when she got pregnant with me. Fifteen years is a bit much in terms of age difference, but one only had to look at the Frey’s children to dismiss that.  
  
If I were to count both lifetimes I could’ve been her sister or mother depending on circumstance.  
  
She didn’t deserve this hand, so I vowed to cheat and give her all my good cards. Children don’t need their own children.  
  
“It must be my poor heritage, probably got it from his grace.” I state with a little grin, not wincing when she hits me upside the head lightly.  
  
“You’re too smart for your own good, Adyn. That tongue will get you killed.” Maria tells me, as if I haven’t heard it many times before.  
  
“Or, it could get us to sunny Dorne.” I shoot back, and her hands pause for a moment.  
  
“Adyn we’ve talked about this before.”  
  
“And I’m bringing it up again. Kings Landing is a cesspool, and with the Hand’s death I have a horrible feeling it’s only going to become worse.” It’s more like a absolutely know then anything, but I can’t just pretend to give out prophecies as some witch. That’s a nice way to get a knife to my neck much faster than Cersei could ever order on her own.  
  
“You’re paranoid.”  
  
“Better than dead, I think”  
  
Maria lets out a little huff, setting the brush to the side and giving me a hug from her perch on her bed. “Dearest, you will find a nice husband far above this shit hole, you’re too smart not to. I’m just a whore, I lost that chance.” No, you haven't. The chance is there until I say it isn't-  
“You’ll be better than me, I’ll make sure of it.” Maria turns me around suddenly, and holds her hands in my own.  
  
“The king is leaving for Winterfell soon, and they are in need of more servants. I’ve pulled what strings I have to get you one of those spots. You'll interact with all sorts of lords and knights and their underlings, and if a squire gets smitten with you even better! It's the perfect plan Adyn. Perfect.”  
  
Blink.  
  
“Are you on crack.” It slips out before I can stop it, after years of dealing with a group of dumb friends it's a natural reaction to insanity.  
  
“What is crack? Dear you say the oddest things. Anyways, this is your shot and I won't be seeing you squander it.”  
  
Crack isn't a drug here, so my meaning is obviously lost by Maria.  
  
She’s lost it, like hell, all bloody seven of them, I'm going with those people. Half of them will be dead in a few years, hell only the Lannister siblings lived to the season I had stopped at. The Princes die, the Princess, The King, and many more. Not to mention I'm one of the twenty something bastards who actually have a claim to the throne, which means Cercei dearest is a bit trigger happy for me.  
  
Oh, Maria is still talking.  
  
“-and they'll be leaving in three days so you'll need to hurry and report by mid afternoon but I'm sure you'll make it-”  
  
“Mother, have you forgotten the Queen’s deep distaste for bastards. Specifically her husband’s.” I practically hiss, cutting her off.  
  
She waves me off as if my fear of losing my life is a joke and I can feel dread filling in my stomach.  
  
“There are so many bastards in Kingslanding I doubt she'll think you're a royal one. Just say nothing of it and you'll be fine.”  
  
She's lost all of her goddamned sense this Twenty eight year old girl.  
  
This is going to be a long discussion, no way am I going anywhere near this beast of a plot.  


* * *

  
  
Why do I do these things to myself.  
  
“Girl hurry up with those supplies we don't have all day!” One of the chefs yells at me, and I feel the strong urge to punch myself.  
  
Repeatedly.  
  
I grumble a small ‘Aye Ma’am’, and pick up the pace, the crate of my dear father’s favorite wine in my arms and a sack of apples on top of that. If I also wanted to smash one of the bottles on the babymaker that brought me to this hell it was anyone’s guess.  
  
The day we’re to leave has been mostly spent grabbing the last of the supplies, tending to the horses, and all the other things one has to do before a long trip. The only thing keeping me from walking away is the way Marie had spoken when she convinced me to leave. She reminds me of Ella, and my heart still clenches at the thought of one of my best friends since elementary school. I see my friend in Marie, my Mother now, because of the way she spoke of fantastical things that could never be.  
  
If she'd been like Anne, then I would never be able to tell her no.  
  
With a small grunt I set the supplies down in one of the carts, pushing it forwards to make room for any other stuff. The main courtyard around me is filled with far too many people, animals, and carts, that is for damned sure. And for a second I can almost see the Hound walking about in the middle of it. From this distance he scar doesn't look all that bad, then again I'd been a good friend of many people in Flea Bottom with plague scars, as well as known a few people with big birthmarks or burns in the before.  
  
“Move, ‘ur in the way.” A boy behind me grumbles and I move over fast on my feet. Shaking my head I turn and look about for more things to do, as they weren't paying me to stand about and think of Prince shit head’s personal guard, even if he was slightly handsome in a weird way now that I got a good look at him-  
  
Stop it Adyn, this body is thirteen only a pedophile would want to get down and dirty.  
  
Wait, hadn't one of the Kingsguard been one of those? Arya had killed him at some point.  
  
Fuck. Off track again.  
  
It is now that the rest of the Royal family decides to show up, meaning a hungover Robert, dear old Dad, and a smirking Renly, my favorite gay uncle. I'd seen Cercei stride Through here an hour ago with two ducklings following after her. Joffrey and his Hound afterwards, and now the King.  
  
He is quite fat, proving the rumors true. He's also one of the bloody tallest people I think I've seen, only beaten by Mr. Smiley, my Brazilian Jujitsu trainer back in middle school. And he was a giant.  
  
I watch with only mild curiosity as he barks orders to the nearest underlings and pulls himself onto his horse. I take that as a hint to hurry and get a seat on a cart for today’s ride before the others do. We'd been stalled by the King, and now he looks to be ready to get this over with, even if it will be up to a month’s journey. Even I cringe at the thought as I pull myself up onto the cart I'd loaded my crate from before onto, along with a few other observant underlings, keeping my travel bag close.  
  
It didn't have much of value other then two well worn books I'd gotten a long while ago and read almost as long ago. Now I'd have the time to reread them yet again, only with more boredom involved with a lack of constant fight for survival. My mother and I don't live in the worst parts of Flea bottom, but it's still Flea Bottom, none one really wants to be there other then that Religious Fanatic I remember from the show, but his ass was crazy and rude to what he thought, or will think is sinners.  
  
Not on my watch, no one is fucking with my slum. The brothel I lived in has multiple lady exclusive relationships, and most of the women involved aren't so bad. Fuck his ideas, if he really cares so much he can just follow ‘Hate the Sin not the Sinner’.  
  
One whisper of torture anywhere near my ear and his ass ‘ll deal with me.  
  
Shit, when did I get so aggressively suicidal?  
  
With a jolt the wagon starts, and I pull my knees closer to myself and my book in front of me.  
  
One can't kill time, but they can move it along quick enough with a good amount of entertainment and books.  
  
My fingers take a quick swipe through my hair, and I wonder how badly this will end. 


	2. Dangerous Business

A continuous song of clapping hooves, a hum of conversation, and ever the tune of birds and otherwise followed the King’s ever large party.

A song that had followed us from the Crownlands to the now Riverlands.

Why did those fucking Andals have to include ‘land’ in every region name for Christ sake?

Why do the Riverlands have to be so bloody humid?

Don't get me wrong, I'd lived in the south so heat is nothing new to me, but the nobles never ceased to complain like hell about the weather, and they don't have to deal with mosquitoes like I did! Ungrateful brats.

Shit, I'm thirteen. Do I get to call most of them brats anymore? Wait, three and ten is how I’m meant to say it. Who thought that was a good way to state your age anyways? If you have the number ten you should have thirteen right?

Thump.

My book drops to the floor of the wagon at a bump in the road and I let out a little curse.

“Why d’you read so much?”

I turn my head to the voice behind me, jumping at it.

“Fuckin’ hell. Don't sneak up on a girl like that.” I grit out, holding my heart with a lifted eyebrow.

An older boy had spoken, having been walking beside the wagon for some reason. I take in his clothes and features with trained semi-ease, sizing up his rank and wealth to answer accordingly. His tunic was made out of higher quality fabric, as were his boots in leathers. No tell tale Lannister features though, despite his blonde hair his eyes are brown.

A cousin to a lower house then.

He looks almost uncomfortable by the language I've used and I find entertainment in that.

“Anyways, I read so much because literacy makes life easier.” I answer, shifting my position to lean on the rail of the wagon with my arms on top of it and my chin resting on those.

He takes a moment to actually think about his response.

“I just didn't know, girls of your standing, took interest in such things.” He says slowly and I can feel my eyebrow getting higher and higher. “I didn't know boys of yours concerned themselves with the interests of girls of my standing.” I reply effortlessly, and I can see the embarrassment crawling up his features.

“I don't! You are just- perplexing.”

“Like a smudge in the mirror after it’s been cleaned.” I supply.

“You like making this hard for me don't you?”

“I do indeed.”

* * *

 

His name is Osbeorn Wigbrand, and he’s a absolute dorky mess.

Almost stumbling through personal opinion and court etiquette it's no surprise he's a squire to a kingsguard rather than taking a place in his father’s house like his elder brothers. Nobles would eat him alive, and he's nowhere near charismatic to make up for any of that.

The opposite of charismatic would be the best way to describe the entity that is Oz.

His father’s a knight, one of the few that helped the capture, read sacking, of Kingslanding at the peak of the rebellion. By doing so he won himself a small ruin to fix up and make his own, which he apparently did, and married a pretty third daughter to a lord no one knows about.

Os himself is a fourth son, so becoming a knight is really the only way he'll do anything important, in his opinion, in this world. Power to him though, I don't clean armor.

I've gathered this much over the few hours I've spent with the gangly teen, and I can conclude albeit awkward, he's alright. Even if he lacks the grit of most common boys. A summer child he is, and one step down from a lowly lord’s son too.

Ah the people I keep company.

Besides the occasional call for me or him to do a task we've mostly stuck together, though I don't know why. I'm not the most fun to be around, especially since he already knows I'm from Fleabottom he should be running away screaming. It's too bad, I would have loved to draw a picture of that.

Now we both sit by the same fire that he'd not so subtly dragged me to because it's still cold even though it's humid and hot during the day. This place is as bipolar as Florida without the swarm of bugs constantly surrounding you.

My hands are smudged and dirty from the charcoal I use on my paper, honing in on Oz’s features despite his discomfort at the attention. “You know, your eyes are a little uneven.” I inform him offhandedly as I glance up again to use my living reference.

“At every one of my flaws you point out I feel my chances at marriage dwindle further Adyn.” He mutters back, probably wondering why he's spending his time with a girl like me when he could be drinking, or whatever boys his age do. Perhaps comparing sword size? Maybe I should ask him when I’m not too focused on drawing him in all his teen glory.

He doesn’t look to bad for a teen if I’m being honest. I’ve seen some rougher on the eyes, and with his semi noble blood he’s seemed to have inherited whatever gene that makes that lot look so naturally pretty looking. Or should I say handsome? Nah, funnier to call ‘im pretty.

“Oh shut your mouth, it’s not like your ugly. A little daft sure but otherwise fine. If you don’t talk when you meet her perhaps you’ll keep her long enough for the bedding.” I point out, giving my ever so generous advice.

He flushes at the mention of a bedding, the dingus. When will he not remind me of a puppy? Never been happier to have someone interrupt my reading if it means I get to tease this guy.

“A girl shouldn’t talk of such things, Adyn.” He almost stutters out.

“I’m not a girl Ozzy, I live in a brothel. Really, have you ever walked in on your mother? Not a pretty sight.”

Red and sick looking he is, perhaps I should cut it out before he pukes on his likeness. I glance back down at said paper and let a smile out at it. Even if I’m in a ice zombie infested hell hole I still have my talent. I don’t know what I would’ve done if my hands hadn’t of been as accommodating in this life.

“And what’s that?” A rough voice asks above me and I swiftly turn my head to look up at whoever the hell decided to sneak up on me for the-

Smooth grooved skin marrs the side of his face, cruelly pulling at his lips in a way he probably couldn’t control. His left eye forever just almost squinting and I idley note he looks more to the actor who played him than the way he was written to look.

Why in the seven hells is the Hound speaking to me, and please let his charge be far away from me.

He seems to be waiting for a response.

“A drawing. I could do you too if you want.” I offer and I can hear Oz choke on his own spit behind me.

Whatever Clegane was expecting me to say or do, he doesn’t get it and he lets out a harsh just almost humorous laugh.

“And who would want to look at a face like mine?” He asks, and I can’t really find it in myself to be terrified of him like everyone else is. Sure he’s a scary mofo when he’s using a sword, but he’s not going to kill me for drawing a pretty picture is he? Added that the scar is covering half his face and that’s a little unnerving, but I’ve seen some just as bad around Fleabottom when I pass people with plague scars. Most of the older folks are survivors from a particularly bad outbreak of what they only deemed horrible with no real name. It vaguely sounds like a bastard child between chickenpox and ebola, crying blood included.

It’d passed fairly quickly as only those with a full to semi immunity lived, and I have a feeling it had something to do with all the shit running through the streets and the water coming from the bay or rain. Someone seriously needed to actually use the sewers that one Targaryen built a few hundred years ago give or take. It’s no wonder Kingslanding is notorious for how bad it smells considering the way everyone handles their waste.

“Maybe I would. Your face is yours and only yours, individual as it gets in my book. Pretty men like Ser Jaime come along all too often.” I inform him, still craning my neck to look up at him. “Those nobles get a little plain after a while if handsome is the standard.”

He laughs again, and a sense of triumph fills me. If I can make a guy like Sandor ‘The Hound’ Clegane laugh then I might as well become a fool. Then again fools tend to injure themselves or become beheaded.

I’ll stick to freelance then, I can charge more.

“Don’t let the Queen hear that, she won’t take kindly to you comparing her brother to a dog like me.” Sandor states, shaking his head and downing what smells like a wineskin.

She only cares because she’s fucking him. Not that I should know that.

“Her grace cares not what a bastard thinks, especially the female sort.” I quip back with a cheeky grin, looking back down at my paper and marking a few more lines to finish the portrait off. “Perhaps she’d like a picture as well, though I doubt she has the time for such… Ah, it’s done Ozzy.” I look back up and hold the picture out to a still wavering Osbeorn, eyes trained on the hound behind me as if he’ll pounce. He switches his gaze back to the paper and gently takes it from my hand, because he would hate to be anything but gentle to a girl.

Dork.

“Care to sit down, Clegane? My friend is terribly afraid of you towering over me like that.” I say, turning my focus to the oddly silent man who is known to be harsh and the like for the most part. Scullery gossip of course, can’t always be trusted, even if he practically emanates ‘fuck off’.

  
He’s amused I think, by the way I talk to him like a normal person. Which is kind of sad, actually. This world breeds killers, it wouldn’t be the first time someone welcomed the like to their fire.

“And why would I spend my time with a whelp and a mouse?”

“Because you’re lonely.”

“Watch it.”

“I always speak truth, Clegane.”

* * *

 

Sandor Clegane is the only “important” character I spend any time around, though it’s at random times with days in between sometimes. He comes whenever he feels like it, and I don’t honestly mind that much. He never brings Joffrey, which keeps him in my good graces.

Osbeorn is a constant though, finding companionship in me he can’t find with the other squires. Won’t being more likely though. He’s the honorable sort, a dying type of man, and the way those boys speak must bother him a great deal to choose a low born girl like myself over them.

The thought of honor brings the mental picture of a boy with a huge scar on his face to memory and for all I try I can’t remember where he’s from. Only the remnants of the name Zuko and a sense of amusement over something I can’t place. He was apart of a cartoon, with boys with tattoos and people who could bend the elements. Avatar.

My memories are good, but for some reason it makes me sad to not remember such things that had felt important once. Of a childhood that wasn’t now but then.

Anyways the sheer thought of a teen named Zuko yelling about honor brings a giggle up from my throat as I fetch some water for the cooks. Pulling the wooden bucket out of the creak in front of me, I set it beside me and take a quick look around.

Tall trees are all around me, and seem to thrive in the slightly muggy climate of the Riverlands. We'd stopped at only one keep so far, our dear Queen Cersei most definitely not amused with the idea of 'roughing it' like peasants, her rumored words, not mine. That woman wouldn't know strife if it hit her in the face. Yeah she could bitch about her mom and husband, but she didn't know the meaning of hardship.

Walking past malnourished children and skeletal parents, hunger gnawing at your stomach, those few steps that mean the difference between losing your money or what's in between your legs.

She could say she did, but she would never know strife. No matter what she said.

I'd had one almost sibling.

Almost.

I look down into the water again, frowning at my reflection. It was weird, the way every time I look into a reflection my mind says it's me and it isn't at the same time. My eyes are dark now, as is my hair, so different from the green eyes and light hair I'd used to have.

Damned beauty mark is still right above my lip though, as if a taunt to what and who I used to be. A writer and a interpreter in a world where neither was popular, unless you wished to live in the free cities.

The irony of that name always got me, since they were a hub of slavery.

Shit, I'd better hurry up if I don't want to get hit upside the head for lollygagging.

Tugging the bucket up from where I'd set it down, I begin my trek back to the camp, as we'd stopped today for the King to run off hunting. I shit you not, he really does do that as often as the damned show showed. Despite his now large belly, he seemed to have this complex that so long as he is killing something he's still the same fiery youth who went to war for his lady love. Unfortunate that said lady love has a son in Winterfell, but he didn't need to know such details.

In the before my hands would have hurt like hell lugging this thing along, but now I had callous, and significantly greater upper body strength. I keep my eyes trained on the trees around me, making sure I stay on the same path from whence I came. Wolves weren't commonly seen in these parts, but bears or anything else really could do away with me easily.

My feet make a small crunching noise as I walk on the leaves and such on the ground, and at the sound of sharp laughter I pause.

Or flinch in a very subtle way.

Even lying to myself in my head now, oh joy.

“Them nobles all lining the road, fucking king ruinin’ our plans.” A distinctly male voice states somewhere to my left, and I quickly get behind a tree, hand over my mouth.

Bandits, rapists, hell, wildlings led astray?

All bad. Shit. Shit shit shit.

“Maybe we can catch one of ‘em pretty serving girls. No one ‘ll miss ‘em.” Another adds and oh my god you've gotta be kidding me.

Adrenaline starts to fill my veins and my legs tense, slowly setting the bucket in my hands down. Fuck the water, I like being alive with my ‘maidenhood’ in tact thank you very much.

“Oi, both of you’s shut up. I think I heard somethin’.”

The bucket had made a noise, shit.

Please don't have a bow, please don't fucking have a bow.

“The hell you mean-” it's too close.

With a shift I dead sprint towards the kingsroad, kicking over the damned bucket in the process but fuck it.

“Hey! Seven ‘ells that bitch ‘eard us!” One of them shouts and I can hear them pursuit through the pounding in my ears. Jumping over a fallen tree limb I don't dare look back. I also ignore the urge to yell about boys in fleabottom being faster, because I don't need to give these fuckers more incentive.

Run run run run-!

My mind chants it and I hope the thump I'd heard behind me wasn't a stray arrow.

My lungs are just burning, and I can hear them leering behind me, as well as cursing. My eyes are taking as much as possible in and I make my path erratic by jumping and ducking under shit.

The trees are thinning and hell yes almost there.

Using what self preservation I have I let out a loud as hell “FUCKING HELP!”, hoping someone with a sword heard me.

An arrow hits the ground where my leg just was and I can tell they don't appreciate my word choice.

Damn the Riverlands, Damn Westeros, I just wanna take a vacation to Dorne.

I break through into the long clearing of the Kingsroad and happily get behind the nearest tall male.

“Fucking- hate- the Riverlands.” I pant out watching a few men go off after the bandits who'd been chasing me.

A familiar gruff laugh sound above me and I see a thoroughly amused Sandor Clegane.

“Damnit.”


End file.
